Bearclaw Valley rum. bring a bottle of it.

yes, and it was as good a first word as any. in its droplet sound was the roundness of merrick's favor, for the bearwolf cast the boy a thoughtful glance before drawing up. with aventus at his flank, he set off again. beneath the storm all scents were muted, but merrick found his milieu in such chaos — always.
strangely satisified by the child's aversion to him, as if his pronouncements had been fed with mother's milk, the madman lowered his muzzle to feather over the slick stones, the wet grass. he cut their path on a downward slope toward the riverbank, where several scents could be found churned into the mud.
a twitch of his dark ears. "pick one." the boy was too young to know the names for each, but all had blood, the beasts who had left the trace of their foot upon the soaked loam. a flicker of light across his staring one eye as clouds shifted above them, and then the first and second generations of ursus were returned to the hushed grey darkness.